


A Taste of Sangria

by contemporarydreamer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, M/M, Toast, fake butter tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemporarydreamer/pseuds/contemporarydreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s so sleepy that he barely registers the movement, but Zayn slips a hand under his shirt and when he presses his palm to Harry’s back, he whimpers.  Harry closes his eyes again and leans in so their foreheads are touching and Zayn feels unbearably sad—sad that they’re in this situation and sad that he can’t kiss Harry when they’re awake and sober.  Sad that Harry’s sad, sad that he can’t press his lips to Harry’s forehead when his eyes are glossy and his lip juts out at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Sangria

**Author's Note:**

> Snippet of something much longer that I'm working on and will rejoice in if I ever finish, but this pov is flipped. 
> 
> Too short and too, too sweet but I hope you like.

Zayn wakes up to Harry breathing into the skin of his stomach. It tickles so much that he almost kicks Harry with his knee, but then he sees the softness of his face and his parted lips and he can’t. He doesn’t know when they fell asleep, or how they even arranged themselves into this position, but Harry looks so sweet that for a blinding, selfish moment he wants to wake him up and kiss the breath right out of his mouth. 

He doesn’t, because that’s unnecessarily rude, but he does run a finger down Harry’s nose, over his lips and down the curve of his neck. 

 

***

 

The next time he wakes up, Harry’s face is right next to his, and this time he can’t resist, scooting in to press a few kisses to his warm cheek - over and over again on the same spot until it’s received enough affection. Harry’s breath hitches in the subtlest of ways, almost indetectable if Harry weren’t so close and he has to lean back and look at him, look at the bridge of his nose and his pink cheeks and his kissable eyelids, shiny with the slightest hint of sweat. 

He leans in again but this time spreads his attention out - pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s ear and then his chin and the tip of his nose.

This close up, he can see Harry’s pores and the tangles in his hair and the way his lips are chapped, and suddenly Zayn has to press his fingertips to his cheek to just feel it all, feel the flutter of his pulse and his deep breaths, the vibration of his blood in his veins and the warmth of his skin. He feels like he’s not close enough, like he can never be close enough to Harry until all the parts of their body are touching, every hair and every toe. He scoots in some more until their stomachs are touching and just watches him, stroking his cheek with the tips of his fingers ever so lightly. 

Apparently sometime within the past few years his willpower reduced to an infinitesimal nub and his patheticness grew to be the size of a small star because he can’t help it - can’t help his need to be close to Harry, so he leans in like a pitiful fool and presses his nose against Harry’s cheek and just rests it there. He lets out a tender sigh and wonders when he became this pathetic, this dependent on a sleeping body. 

He can’t tell if Harry’s even sleeping anymore because his breath catches quietly in his throat and then his hand comes up and he places it softly on the back of Zayn’s neck when Zayn leans back a little. 

“Zayn,” he whispers, eyes still closed. 

“Babe,” Zayn responds and _Jesus Christ_ , he’s so weak. 

“Come here.”

Zayn goes easily, leaning in and pressing his lips to Harry’s in a gentle kiss. He cups his face in his hand and strokes his cheek over and over with his thumb, his other hand finding Harry’s hair and pushing it away from his face. Harry looks so exhausted, like the entire week he's been running and this is his final, well-deserved rest. 

Zayn nudges a thigh between Harry's legs and Harry finally opens his eyes, a small gasp leaving him and Zayn feels like he's lost - like the universe doesn't make sense unless Harry's eyes are open and he's looking at Zayn like that. 

Harry’s so sleepy that he barely registers the movement, but Zayn slips a hand under his shirt and when he presses his palm to Harry’s back, he whimpers. Harry closes his eyes again and leans in so their foreheads are touching and Zayn feels unbearably sad—sad that they’re in this situation and sad that he can’t kiss Harry when they’re awake and sober. Sad that Harry’s sad, sad that he can’t press his lips to Harry’s forehead when his eyes are glossy and his lip juts out at the end of the day. 

He wonders if Ilona suspects anything, if she heard Zayn leave the room and sneak into her best friend’s. He thinks of when he was eighteen and he was sitting on the kitchen counter and Harry was standing between his legs, balancing a grape in the juncture of Zayn’s neck and his shoulder and he wanted nothing more than to kiss him, but he didn’t because Ilona was meters away and his heart felt three tons heavy with guilt from just blushing in that moment. He thinks of all the toast they’ve shared and the private conversations they’ve had at four a.m., when the sky outside was deciding whether to be pink or blue and he was deciding when to tell Harry that he’d loved him since he hugged him that day in the hospital so hard that Zayn dropped the Jell-O he’d gotten for him. 

Harry sighs again, clearly discontented with the amount of contact between them so Zayn ducks his head down and presses his lips to Harry’s throat, Harry so quiet that Zayn almost worries until he remembers Ilona in the room next door. He presses kisses here and there on Harry’s neck as Harry breathes soundly. He says, “Zayn,” again, quiet and still tired, eyes still closed, breaths still soft, and Zayn feels so much affection for him that he has to lean in and kiss him again. He feels so childish that he wants to run into the bathroom and splash cold water onto his face and tell himself that this is ridiculous, that he’s getting flustered over a chaste kiss. It’s embarrassing but he can’t not - he gets worked up just looking at the skin on Harry’s knuckles and his hands shake when Harry exposes his neck to him. There was one night when Harry went to his apartment later than usual and his hair was in a bun and his neck was sweating and he looked so sweet that Zayn didn’t know how to not pull him in and kiss his face. It was late and Ilona was sleeping soundly miles away and Harry looked so lovely that Zayn almost sank to his knees then and there on the dirty floor of the foyer. It’s something between them that makes him want to to be an inch away from Harry at all times, that makes him want to hold Harry’s hand and hear his stories and watch every movie he’s ever seen with him just so he can document how Harry’s face will move throughout it. 

He looks lovely now. He always does, but now so more than ever. Drowsy and discombobulated, eyes falling shut with sleep, hair in tangles, so sweet that Zayn’s heart pounds furiously and weakly at once and he wills himself to calm down before he comes in his pants from just kissing him. 

He doesn’t understand the effect that Harry has on him, brain seeming to pound against the walls of his skull as he wonders why his heart jumps when he kisses Ilona, but leaps, _flies_ , and then goes out like an old light bulb when he as much as brushes Harry’s hand. His dick clearly does not take the same approach.

He doesn’t want to think too much about it, just wants to kiss Harry and touch his waist and kiss his fingertips, and fucking wrap himself around Harry’s entire body and freeze the moment, so he pulls back and kisses Harry’s jaw again. Down his neck and in the dip between his collarbone. He moves down and kisses above his pants, where he has hair growing under his belly button, sticks his tongue out to tease him and he tastes so saccharine, like a sweet wine that he’d buy and drink in one night. Harry says his name again and sighs. His hand is still on the back of Zayn’s neck but the other one moves to tug at his pajama bottoms until Zayn grabs them and takes them all the way off, lying between Harry’s legs and parting them carefully like they’re made of glass. He looks up and _god_ , Harry takes his breath away, he realizes for the hundredth time, eyes closed and barely awake, chest rising and falling with flushed breaths. He wants to dip his head down and kiss the skin of his stomach, wants to lick his hip and bite his thighs. He wants Harry to teach him how to suck his dick and then he wants to go lower and eat Harry out until he’s crying with pleasure. _Fuck_ , Zayn thinks, suddenly so hard in his pants that it hurts to move, as he closes his eyes and imagines that one day he’ll open Harry up and slide into him and Harry will be breathless and sweating, hands grasping at Zayn’s hair like they’re the only two people in the world. 

Them and the bed and the toast and the half empty tub of _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter_ sitting in the fridge that started this whole thing. 

He’s in the middle of draping Harry’s leg over his shoulder, fingers just beneath the band of his briefs when he drops his head and thinks, _shit_. 

_Shit. I’m a terrible person. I’m a terrible person._

_I’m terrible._

_Terrible._

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
